Translating Pushkin
by Shenive-chan
Summary: What is lost in translation? What is gained in translation? RusxAme


**_Translating Pushkin_**

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The man named Ivan Braginski (aka Russia) is the second most French person in the world. The title of first belongs to, of course, Francis Bonnefoy aka France (also, he would like to remind those speakers of the brutish German influenced language called English that his last name is said as 'Bon-fuah' and not 'Bonfo-i'!). Not that the man named Ivan Braginski did not give Francis a good run for the title of number one most French man in the world.

I know, I know, you think now, "Surely, you exaggerate!"

How can a non-Frenchman have come so close to claiming that most coveted position from an actual Frenchman, indeed, from France's own physical manifestation! Looking at the man named Ivan Braginski today, too one would think, "This brutish man, this alcoholic cold man with eyes full of anger and violence a Frenchman! Never!" Victorian era exclamations aside, yes I have come to tell you that this is very true! Hear me as I say this to you, that the man named Ivan Braginski was not truly Russia until he lost his heart on the banks of the Neva.

...

Ivan grew up knowing roughly the Slavic language of his people, the Russian of today. But for many years Ivan, isolated and controlled under the Tsars and imperial Russia was to speak, write, and read in the most beautiful language Europe could ever vomit up: French. Anything French was glorious! Russia was such a Francophile that he could barely speak to the masses that made him up in their (and his) own native language.

Even dancing the mazurka! Oh, Ivan was very good at it, but not nearly as good at it as when he danced ballet. France, on visits to the cold North, would many times steam up in envy – and of course, lust – whenever Ivan took to dancing that most Christian of dances.

Their good relationship would come to a very aggressive end though; soon Ivan would know why England/Arthur, whom Russia had always seen as a terrible pimple to be banished from the pale face of Europe, detested with all his heart France and Francis. Tricked, Napoleon ran forward into the Russian's chilly lands, three times. Let it not be said that the French when properly gathered give up easily, or that Francis never had more than a passing flirtation with Ivan. Truly, France was sad to let such a grandiose man go, one that revered him dearly too!

It is indeed because of Francis that Ivan became Russia at the banks of the Neva. Lost in all the finery of Western Europe, in French decadence and culture, English styles, and Polish dances, Ivan grew to have that feeling… some might call it the "spleen" or others the "khandra". That disillusionment with a world that is very quick to give him all luxuries at little cost. At one point this feeling too Ivan might have borrowed from Francis, for he is known to suffer from such romantic melancholy quite at will, but it very quickly became uniquely Russian, uniquely "khandra".

Ivan Branginski, deep in khandra, at the banks of the Neva, lost his heart and gave birth to the Russian soul.

...

He rediscovered his language, and learned that French could never sound as beautiful to him as his own language. He began to write it down, make wordplay out of it. Other languages had been doing this for close to a thousand years, here Ivan has just started! But he made up for the time lost, writing endlessly a huge surge of novels with romances and drama and theory and philosophy sprawling as long and wide as did his own lands.

No one was ready for it all! To think this copycat of France had a distinct voice, and one that was filled with so much emotion! Sure the North was severe, but this gave Ivan great wisdom and great pain that was suddenly easier to write in Russian than in any other language he had ever tried. Even Arthur came to envy the eloquent melancholy Ivan had become a master of.

But one young boy was not surprised; instead this one young boy was eating all the Great Russian novels with no end to his hunger. And he also shared this hunger with the other influential men of his land, fostering in them a love for Russian tales. One day it came that this young boy wished for all his people to enjoy such great fruits, but how could they if they could not read Russian? It was then that this young boy began his lifelong pursuit of translating Ivan's literature into that barbaric English known as American English.

...

In those rare nights that Alfred was serious and studious and truly showed the full grandeur of his intelligence, he made Ivan sit down next to him at his condo in NYC. It was cold, snow falling softly, so that he had set up his two lazyboys by the fireplace – which was giving off that soft warmth that would normally put one to sleep. But Alfred this time was particularly agitated and excited and could not think of sleeping when Ivan reluctantly conceded to do as he said.

Ivan himself wondered what Alfred was up to. He had been strangely quiet, though not strangely fidgety at the conference they had attended earlier, and had made various attempts to start a conversation with him, of which he had grown suspicious. Alfred was rarely nice unless he wanted something and Ivan was not the type to submit to his will readily.

Nevertheless Ivan sat very calmly, admiring the nice snow kissed New York skyline, keeping his pipe within grabbing distance in case stuff went south.

Alfred picked up a slim book from his table which had little yellow sticky notes coming out from all its sides. He again rearranged the recliner so that it was facing Ivan better and sat on it. He looked at Ivan and said, "I've lost count of how many times I've tried to translate Eugene Onegin, but I think this is the best done so far. Please tell me if you agree."

Without waiting for Ivan – who was speechless and startled – Alfred began reading the first chapter of his English translation of Pushkin's _Eugene Onegin_.

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"_Not aiming to amuse the folk in_

_The haughty set, but just my friends,_

_I'd hoped to tender you a token_

_More worthy of the mingled trends_

_That make your soul so captivating,_

_So rife with sacred dreams, and with_

_Such clear poetic life, pulsating_

_With noble thought and humble myth;_

_Oh, well... With your discriminating_

_Fine hand, please take my chapters eight - _

_half droll, half sad, at times romantic,_

_They're down to earth and ne'er pedantic,_

_These careless fruits I've born of late - _

_My sleepless nights' bright inspirations,_

_Through callow and through fading years,_

_My mind's detached, cool observations,_

_My heart's sad words, distilled from tears."_

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"He is flat, your poet," Ivan said at last, when Alfred closed the novel up and sat quietly looking at him for a minute. At this comment Alfred looked tragic.

"Yo-you think so?" He looked down sadly at the novel in his hands. Ivan, not being able to stand that tantalizing stupid look got up and forced his body to squish itself beside Alfred's on the recliner. His whole body pressed up against that youthful one, and he raised his hand to Alfred's neck to stroke affectionately, "Da. Hmm, but I will help you along. One must feel Pushkin," Ivan's fingers traveled up Alfred's neck and lightly caressed a plump cheek, feeling its increasing heat and dusting of pink, "as equally as one must hear him. You have heard him well, but have not even begun to feel…" his other hand cupped the other cheek and turned the head slightly towards him, leaning in to give Alfred a soft kiss.

Alfred gave a little sigh reminiscent of those given when something is finally completed after much labor. He leaned up to give Ivan a short kiss, and felt that feeling overcome him once more. So he gave another short kiss, and another and another, that one would wonder whether they were still a multitude of kisses or just one long one. Ivan felt everything warm up further and was confused that for the first time ever his coat felt stuffy. He took it off while Alfred shyly laid his hands on Ivan's thighs, which had turned towards him during the kissing.

Once Ivan had taken off the coat, Alfred moved his hands up to Ivan's shoulders, tugging them towards him as to kiss him again. Ivan moved his to Alfred's waist, just holding the body still. This was weirdly gentle of them both, so used to ferocity in their beings that soft coaxing was wonderfully absurd. They took short pauses between kisses until Ivan pulled Alfred closer, almost on his lap, and began speaking in Russian.

It was the first verse of _Eugene Onegin _and Alfred felt weak all over.

He traveled back to the banks of the Neva that night and found Russia's heart, feeling Pushkin pulsing constant.

...

"Would you ever fight a duel for me, hmm? Are we not like them? I loved you much, only to have you push me away! And once I've made a great life for myself, you want me back." Alfred said as he laid next to Ivan on his bed, fully naked and comfortable. He was laying on his side, looking at a closed-eyed Ivan that had smiled a little at his comment, he reached over to his chest and played with the short hairs there – which he found very sexy. Alfred moved closer and laid his head on Ivan's chest, feeling those hairs tickle his cheeks. He was very warm.

Ivan said, "Did I not fight a duel for you? I was thinking I had. 'Love's test I failed, though – deaf and dumb.'"

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Historical Notes:

Alexander Pushkin: Author of many works, most famously _Eugene Onegin_ and is considered one of the (if not THE) best Russian poets ever; founded Russian modernist literature, and proved to his countrymen that Russian was just as viable a poetic language as French.

The Neva: A famous river in Russia along which St. Petersburg is located, it's very famous for other things, among which the crucial role it played during the siege of Leningrad (St. Petersburg) in WWII.

"Not aiming to amuse the folk in – ": Pushkin's introduction/dedication, _Eugene Onegin _Hofstadter translation.

"He is flat, your poet,": Flaubert said this to Turgenev after reading the Russian novelist's translations of Pushkin's poems.

"Love's test I failed, though - " Stanza 58, Chapter 1, Eugene Onegin, Hofstadter translation.

French: Russian nobles and intelligentsia spoke in French. Pushkin was very critical in revitalizing the Russian language.

I ask of you that you go and read Eugene Onegin! Hence, am I suddenly asking too much if I also include that you kindly REVIEW?


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